Left Only

Dawn would be early for the shower, but it was better than staying here, where Rick was driving her nuts with his Toby Keith and surround sound NASCAR, his poker chips and fat cigars.  It was his night to "get ugly" as he said--his once-a-month vacation from himself, a sordid trip accompanied by Joe, Damon, and whoever else happened to appear throughout the night with six packs of High Life, jumbo bags of cheese puffs, Ziplocs of weed.

Rick was her first decent boyfriend.  Eleven months and (as she told her dubious mother) going strong.  How dare she complain?  With a minimum of grumbling, Rick would make himself scarce tomorrow, when Julie, her friend from way back, arrived with a warm hug and cream filled Glazers from QuikPik to watch movies--romantic comedies he would usually finger before leaving, searching the back of boxes for "hot chicks or nudity."

Dawn promised she'd call when she got to the shower and call when she left.  In the back seat of the Aspire, she carefully arranged the bottle of wine, the spinach dip, and, of course, the gift--a sexy, scarlet and white lace chemise.  She could easily see herself slipping into the cool, silky garment and striking a seductive pose on the bed or sofa.  But Rick wasn't interested in such things; for him, lingerie was superfluous.  It just got in the way of the stuff that mattered.

As she eased out of the drive, Dawn released an audible breath.  It was nice to have a world--even if it was nothing more than the compact bubble of the car's interior--to herself, a quiet, peaceful world if she chose, or one gently filled by the sentimental croonings on WCLR.  If she had her druthers, she'd grab a cup of drive thru coffee and just drive--cruise Route 28 through the forest, sway to the gentle undulations of the sinuous road, tap the wheel to Billy Joel ballads, and end up where she may, heedless of time or obligation.

But she'd been invited to this shower by her boss, who last week placed a well-manicured hand on her nailbitten one and said "You must come," and that meant she had to go, despite the fact that Dawn had so little in common with the women at New Start.  After "how are you" and "I'll have red," she would be speechless as usual, in silent awe of these women who owned homes, sprawling places bordering the river in North Clerestory; kids old enough for dance lessons and soccer practice; Land Rovers and Pathfinders cluttered with coolers, muddied cleats, brand name changes of clothes; physically fit, salt and peppered husbands who worked as attorneys, oncologists and plastic surgeons.  Dawn did her best with thrift store skirts and blouses, but, in the context of the center, looked like someone out of step with the times.  Not that the women cared, as long as she answered phones, made copies, kept the coffee fresh twenty-five hours a week.

Dawn found herself at a red light in the Left Only lane.  In a convertible to her right, a middle-aged man, skin wrinkly as balled up aluminum foil, grinned at her.  Outstretched over the passenger side, his hand tapped out an invitation on the leather bucket seat.  Dawn had planned to kill time driving through campus, but she could not imagine following this man, and giving him even the remotest possibility of an idea.  When the light flipped to green, she puttered left instead, down Treatment Road, past the box factory, where her father had worked for years. Every Saturday afternoon, she'd be dragged by her mother across the city, where they'd wait in the tar-smelling lot for him to emerge from his inevitable overtime and fall into the passenger seat.  They'd drive home to nothing more than the rhythmic thumps of tires over patched asphalt.  From the backseat, Dawn would study her father's profile, hard and gray and damp as basement walls.   

Out past the mall she went, past the air-conditioned world that welcomed her for a few pleasant hours earlier today, where in the delightful process of buying Sandra's gift, she completely lost track of time.  Dawn had fallen for the garment right away, and, encouraged by the ebullience of the saleswoman (who had one her "hubby" just loved), made the purchase.  On the way home, Dawn realized she'd bought it more for herself than for the lucky wife to be.  But so what?  That was simply the definitive sign of a gift well-chosen. 

Stopped under a highway bridge, she listened to cars rumble north and south on I 73--toward Cleveland and Columbus.  She had a friend in each city, each of whom moved away to college and discovered the world--or Ohio, at least--was bigger, filled with more opportunity and wonder than the tiny burg of Clerestory.  "I was homesick at first," Kate told her on the phone some years ago now, "but then I met friends, and slowly . . . surely . . . I built this whole new wonderful life."  She'd seen Tamara's name in the Class Notes of her high school publication.  Dawn's best friend from grade school was a vice president of something.  A vice president.  The title struck her dumb with its power.

When the light turned, Dawn suddenly found herself out of town.  The white sign on the side of the road said 45 MPH.  That number--the clear, black fact of it--she found it vaguely thrilling.  Stepping on the gas, leaning out the window to push her face against the rush of late summer wind, she sped into the newly paved road.  It was 8:25.  She'd drive a little farther--up to the next intersection (wherever that might be)--and turn around.  Even if she hit a light or two on her return, she'd only be fashionably late.  By then, enough of a crowd would have gathered so that Dawn could grab a paper plate of carrot sticks and dip and slide inconspicuously into the festivities.

The Aspire groaned up an unexpected hill.  Not long after a sign for a dangerous curve, the pungent smell of oil reached her through the vents.  According to Rick, the car had been doing this for days.  "You just have to watch it," he said last week, shrugging his shoulders, on his way back to the bedroom where his video game was paused.  Okay, so she would watch it.  She looked down at the dash, into the dark, mysterious vents.  As the smell intensified, she even stuck a finger inside, as if that would keep the odor at bay--under the hood, where all of that stuff belonged. 

When thin question marks of smoke curled out under the hood, Dawn eased off the road and turned off the car.  She'd let it rest.  The hill was simply too much to conquer all at once.  She counted to fifty, adding ten more for luck.  By then, the smell had diminished, the smoke dissipated.  She took that as a sign the car was getting better.  Holding her breath, sliding teeth together, she carefully twisted the key.  The car would not turn over.  She tried it again, squeezing the key, pushing it deep into the ignition, listening as the undulating groans of the engine flattened into a dull pathetic purr.  A tear of perspiration glided between her breasts.  She tried it one more time (wasn't the third time a charm?)--there was nothing but a soft, ominous click. 

When she was twelve years old, she'd been forgotten by her father at a skating rink.  Skates slung over her shoulder, brain still buzzing with the pleasant thoughts of cute boys swiping her pink knit cap from her head, she looked left and right for the familiar bow of her father's Continental.  The dusk collapsed into dark, the traffic tapered off, and a few questionable silhouettes slunk by, the whites of eyes sneaking over dark turned up collars.  Still, no sign of him.  Finally--an hour late--her father pulled up, beer on his breath but not enough to dull the serrated edge that was always in his voice.  "Are you a baby?" he said.  "A little baby that has to call mom if dad isn't right out in front like a bus?"  Slumped in the seat of her disabled Aspire, she felt it all again: the adolescent shame of dependency, the scalding memory of her dead father's eyes. 

After a time, Dawn climbed out of the car and stood amid the acrid fumes, hands on hips, the night encroaching, the wind confusing her hair, gnats dancing in her face.  Helpless tears shook in her eyes.  During the day, this was a well-traveled road--the main artery between Clerestory and Boonville.  Now, however, it seemed that most people had arrived to where they were going.  And those that hadn't--those stranded souls like her--were vulnerable, subject to danger.  Just last week, this young woman down in Independence had been raped.  The guy had crawled up to her stalled vehicle in a freshly painted tow truck, approached in the snappy blue shirt of a local garage.  Later, he'd taken her into the woods.  Dawn imagined the woman's skirt dragging in the grass and mud, the sound of crickets, the suffocating press of the rapist's inhuman flesh.  "It's not sex men want," her mother told her once, after Dawn had returned home one evening in the wake of an unexplained argument.  "Just a great big hole to fill with their hate."  Later, looking into her father's implacable face, a cold feeling tremored straight through to her toes.  Dawn never knew what was happening behind that face--how close he was to a smile, or to a knife in your heart. 

Dawn pounded the hood of the car with a fist.  Dammit, she had to do something--something other than stand on the shoulder of this traffic-less road and soak the pavement with her childish tears.  Reaching into the backseat, she grabbed the gift and wine (the dip would be the evening's casualty) and began walking toward a lone streetlight in the distance.  Perhaps something was there--a diner, a roadside dive--and she could phone Rick.  Joe or Damon would drive him here, so he could figure out what was wrong.  He would be angry, to be sure, and hold it against her tomorrow--change his mind about disappearing for the evening and blare country tunes from the basement or jam the VCR so it could not be used--but what could she do . . . except, possibly (and her shoulders instinctively bunched at the thought), she could call a tow truck--take care of matters on her own.  There might be additional expense involved, but perhaps that would less likely draw Rick's ire.  At the very least, his poker game could continue uninterrupted.

There was a sudden rustling in the trees, followed by dark splotches on the pavement.  Soon, rain was plinking down around her.  "Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit," Dawn muttered, picking up the pace, her ankles bending in the soft, uneven slope, the wine slipping through her arms.  The road opened ahead, and Dawn jogged into the gravel drive of Dale Seitz's automotive repair, where a plastic sign laconically explained: "If It Broke, We Fix It."  She darted under the awning, and surveyed the lot: no pay phone.  Gusts of wind brought rain sideways, spattering her clothes and face, forcing her to turn away--toward the door.  She had to try to get inside somehow.  There'd be a phone.  She could call the tow truck.  She'd be safe.  It crossed her mind to take this bottle of Chardonnay and heave it through the window, but that action seemed so contrary to anything she'd ever done--anything that anyone could ever imagine her doing--that she nearly laughed at the absurdity of it.  There was also the door.  Surprisingly, it drifted back at her touch, banging against the inside wall like a person passing out.  With soaked skirt and straggly hair, Dawn edged into an alien world filled with disheveled stacks of sports magazines, tiny pyramids of oil and transmission fluid, a bulky television set with knobs.  On the wall behind the desk was a woman in lingerie, copious breasts spilling out over the first week of August.  Dawn was struck by the smell of oil, burnt coffee, and fast food--the smell, in other words, of men. 

After calling a tow truck (it would be an hour), she plopped down next to a donut sitting on a folding chair.  She leaned over to admire the cool, perfect glaze.  It made her smile.  There's a donut in this room, she thought.  Nothing bad can happen. 

Rain fired down on the aluminum awning.  If only she had just gone straight to the shower, arrived on time, suffered through the awkwardness.  She saw her father standing behind the counter, writing up an order, listing in long rectangular boxes all the things wrong with her character.  Then the lecture: Dawn, I can't keep up with the things you do wrong.  You're too much.  The world goes this way and you go that way, just for kicks.  You'll learn though, he'd finish cryptically, snapping at the form with the back of his hand.  Oh will you learn.

So sure enough she was learning, soak and wet and sitting in a flimsy folder chair, missing a party because she simply turned left.  She stood up and went to the gift on the counter.  The cashier had not even wrapped it.  Just tied ribbon around the gold box.  Dawn slid off the ribbon and removed the cover, which was soft from rain.  Underneath the noisy tissue lay the red chemise--silent, demure.  She rubbed the material between thumb and fingers, gently pressed the tiny hearts that ringed the neckline.  She took it out, shook it down, danced it in front of her eyes, placed it against her body.  Her last boyfriend broke up with her about her looks.  "Don't get me wrong," he said, "you're pretty . . . but you don't get me going the way other women do." 

Looking down at the undulating waves of silk, she thought, what did he know?  What, for that matter, did any of them know?  One after the other slipped into her life with the sole purpose of judging her and, in the space of a few months, finding her wanting.  Was Rick any different?  She thought of impending fall and winter--of long, dark, weeknight evenings at home, the television doing its best to make her laugh; the leafless maple in the front yard, the wind frightening the glass in its panes, and Rick snorting on the sofa, beat from another double shift.  Perhaps what made him better was just that he lacked their energy.  Perhaps his relative goodness was nothing more than inertia.   

The rain was slamming down now, like heavy, lethal fists.  Dawn caught up the nightshirt and placed it over her head, sliding it over blouse and shirt.  She felt awkward, hopeless--like always.  Awkward in the heels Rick always demanded she wear; in the kitchen with meals that failed to cohere; in the bedroom, not knowing what moves to make, nor knowing how to mask displeasure at the moves made upon her.  This morning in the center, while filing client folders, her bra suddenly came undone and two heavy lumps of flesh slumped into her blouse.  Standing in front of the bathroom mirror with a safety pin, she'd thought, my god, this is the epitome of my life.   

Dawn reached behind, under the nightshirt, found the zipper to her soaking skirt and gave it a tug.  It caught on the material as it always did and for a moment--looking out into the empty lot bathed in streetlight--she nearly lost her nerve. Then spying the donut on the chair, she laughed out loud and gave one good yank.  Moving her hips a few times was enough to get the skirt to the floor.  Pressing her hands against her thighs, she smoothed down the nightie like she was frosting a birthday cake.  There.  There!  Now how better was that?

As Dawn turned to the mirror, she found herself looking at a dark object--a smooth, cylindrical something that caused a prickly wash to course down her back, an acid heat not even silk could cool.  Her head froze in half turn as she heard a voice, higher than expected, but too weak to break through the senseproof field of fear that had grown around her.  Then, if the sweat beading like hot oil on her skin were any indication, there must have been a melting.  That along with the fact that the words seemed to sharpen, becoming "What is this?" before giving way to unformed sound again, this time not words but laughter and the laughter was, like the voice, an octave higher than she might have thought had she had time to think, and soon, as the heat turned to cool drops on her lip, her back, her thighs, she was not afraid to look up and face the owner of the voice and laugh because this person was a woman.   

Traces of acne canvassed the woman's face, giving contour to her banged forehead.  When she smiled again, Dawn half-expected braces.   

"Are you trying to get killed?"  The gun was no longer pointing.

Dawn flounced the nightshirt, felt the red seeping into her face.  "It's a long story," she said, wondering where to begin, wondering how to get from that beginning to the end--here in an automotive shop, prancing around in someone else's nightie, staring down the barrel of a gun.  But really it wasn't a story--just an accidental chain of events.  Nothing she said could make sense.  Or could it?  As she looked harder, closer, at the woman, she suddenly recognized her, had seen her somewhere in town, at Hangover's or the QuikPik or . . . at New Start, that was it.  This poor woman shuffled in some months ago, on a soggy Spring day, with only a shopping bag of underwear.  Her husband, she'd told one of the counselor's, had not just kicked her out of the house, he beat her out of it.  She showed the blue arms and face to prove it.  Dawn, making photocopies by the open office door, had seen her heaving in the chair, crying without tears. 

But there was more to remember about her.  There was her name--the name she'd heard the counselor speak before saying it was all going to be okay, the name she heard sometime later when the counselor had said "I'm so so happy for you."  She glanced at the woman's uniform and sure enough: "Dawn."  D-A-W-N in cheery red cursive. 

"Are you Dawn?  Are you?"

   The woman peered, like she was trying to see her reflection in the window of a darkened room.  Her pupils opened with fear and her grip on the weapon instinctively tightened.  Then she understood, and the dark pools of her eyes receded.

Dawn nonchalantly brought her arms across her breasts, but she was shaking, from the chill, from the sudden realization of a gun barrel inches from her now convulsing breasts.  Her teeth began to chatter, and her skin seemed to rise away from her bones.  It was coming off, or taking off, and there were tears too, warm rivulets of shame and joy combined, coursing toward her mouth like potent drops of medicine. 

"Can . . . you . . ." she sputtered at last, trying like crazy to be still, "you . . . can you help?"